


Not Unseen

by blithers



Category: Know Not Why - Hannah Johnson
Genre: M/M, Podfic Available, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 16:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5504891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithers/pseuds/blithers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Howie and Arthur, roommates extraordinaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Unseen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sonni89](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonni89/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this Yuletide treat, Sonni89! All my thanks to my beta readers, NightsMistress and htbthomas.
> 
> This story goes a bit AU from the book - in this universe, Arthur and Howie never kissed the first time in the fake flowers aisle, but Cora and Howie still went out and half-heartedly made out that one time and talked about Howie maybe being gay. This story picks up shortly after that.

“And Jessica and Katelyn and Ashley are all coming over, and we’re going to have _such_ a great time!” Kristy says. “I haven’t seen Ashley in years, oh my god, it’s going to be just like high school again! Can you imagine?”

“I don’t know that me and high school is a pairing that should really get back together again,” Howie says. Sure, it’s not like the rest of his life has been that great (exhibit A: the craft apron he is currently wearing), but he’s also pretty sure high school is not something he wants to go through again.

“What are you doing tonight?” Cora asks Arthur, who is pulling a blank expression that’s managing to somehow convey tragedy and suffering and grim resolve all at once.

“Arthur’s hanging out with us, of course!” Kristy answers, hopping a little in her chair. “He said he’s going to teach us all how to make the _best_ strawberry daiquiris, you know, with, like, real strawberries and stuff. It’s going to be the best!”

Cora raises an eyebrow.

“Sounds awesome, man,” Howie says.

“Yes,” Arthur agrees, like he’s repeating something in a foreign language. “Very… awesome.”

“What are you guys doing tonight?” Kristy asks.

“Time warp,” Cora says crisply, examining her nails.

Howie shrugs. “Nothin’ much.”

Kristy nods. “Cool. Cool cool.”

Howie realizes suddenly that Arthur is staring at him intently across the table, not even blinking. They make eye contact, and Arthur slowly mouths, “Save me.”

Oh geez. Howie isn’t going to do it, he isn’t going to…

“Hey, uh, Arthur,” Howie coughs a couple times, then mans up, “you wanna come over for dinner tonight? My Mom and I are going to be whipping up a bitchin’ Chinese takeout spread. I mean, if Kristy can spare you, obviously.”

“Okay,” Arthur agrees quickly, not even protesting the use of words like “takeout” and “bitching,” which is how Howie knows the situation is truly dire. Arthur turns to Kristy with an appropriately contrite expression. “I apologize for missing this opportunity to meet your friends.”

Kristy is looking back and forth between Arthur and Howie with growing delight, like Christmas just came early, complete with mistletoe and gay, gay makeouts all over the place. Howie wants to melt himself into a puddle of embarrassment, right there on the floor.

Cora rolls her eyes. She’s been surprisingly cool since her and Howie’s whole hey-maybe-you’re-gay-and-maybe-you-should-think-about-that makeout last week, even though Howie had lived in a fear for a solid couple days about Cora spilling the beans. Really, she’s pretty much the best, Howie’s decided, even if the sensation of her lip ring jammed against his own mouth still haunts Howie’s nightmares.

“That’s okay! We’ll be rocking out to so much T. Swift we won’t even miss you, Arthur. You should stay out as late as you want. I mean, don’t rush home for us. _Enjoy_ yourself.”

Arthur nods, face heroically stoic, and Kristy claps her hands together with glee.

 

*

 

Arthur tails Howie’s car home after work and Howie stops dutifully at the yellow lights, so they don’t get separated. By the time he makes it to his house, he’s kind of regretting his impulsive decision to invite good old Artie Kraft to dinner. Sure, the guy isn’t as bad as he might have first thought (in fact, they get along pretty well at this point), but it’s not like they’re exactly best buds or anything. Howie’s pretty sure a stilted evening of boring conversation and half-hidden wincing as Arthur valiantly eats takeout is in store for all of them. Damn his soft heart!

Howie unlocks the door silently and Mom walks out of her study, stopping when she sees Arthur coming through the door after him.

“Hey Mom,” Howie says. “This is Arthur, my boss.”

“Nice to meet you, Arthur,” Mom says faintly, then shoots him an accusatory look. “Sorry, I was just expecting… Howie didn’t tell me who was joining us for dinner.” Way to rub in the fact that he only has two friends total, Mom.

“Thank you for having me, Mrs. Jenkins,” Arthur says, super polite, like this is some amazing social opportunity and not just an invitation to eat mediocre Chinese food usually and ritually consumed in front of the TV.

She smiles at him. “Please, call me Miranda.”

They order extra cashew chicken and class it up with some egg drop soup, and Mom clears the dining room table and sets out some placemats that she manages to dig out of one of the bottom drawers in the kitchen. Arthur is chatting with both of them while they wait for the delivery guy to show up. Howie is surprised by how… _easy_ it feels. Apparently Arthur can turn on the charm when he wants to - that, or he’s the sort of person who’s great at chatting with parents anyway, because he’s basically a forty year old in the body of a twenty-something year old who’s also really into wearing ties.

“Thank you again for inviting me over,” Arthur says, serving himself a heaping plate of food. “Kristy and her peer group can be rather… exuberant at times.”

“How long are you going to stay with K-Bells anyway?” Howie asks.

“I am,” Arthur hesitates, “trying to figure out what my ex’s plans with regards to our old apartment might be.”

Mom takes a sip of her wine. “And you can’t find a place for yourself before then?”

“Perhaps. I found a place last weekend that I liked, but the rent was a bit more than I could afford on my own.”

“Say it ain’t so, boss man,” Howie says, putting a hand over his chest.

Arthur smiles. “Being the manager of a craft store your family owns pays less than you might think.” He says it simply, with no resentment, but there’s a world of history in that explanation. Howie feels a dim pang of bad for the guy.

“So what you’re saying is that you need to hook up with somebody else, pronto,” Howie says, trying for the joke. “Somebody who can pay them bills, bills, bills.”

“Are you looking for a roommate?” Mom asks.

Arthur shakes his head. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

Howie takes a thoughtful bite of cashew chicken and chews wisely and sympathetically, all, _yeah, finding a roommate is tough and life’s a bitch, huh_ , right as Mom turns to face Arthur and asks, point blank, “What about Howie?”

 _What_.

“What about Howie what?” Howie asks, strangled. Mom throws him an innocent little glance, and oh no, son. No way.

“Howie as a potential roommate,” she says.

Arthur’s glance slides over to Howie, but Howie can’t make heads or tails of Arthur’s expression. “I didn’t know you were looking for a place to live,” Arthur says politely, addressing Howie directly.

“I…” Howie’s thought about moving out sometimes, in weird, sitcom-fueled daydreams of people laughing and having wacky, bonding adventures in, like, New York City, but the reality is that he always drops the idea. He can’t leave his mom by herself, no way.

“You could at least go with Arthur, see the place,” Mom suggests. For one weird, surreal moment Howie wonders if she knows about this whole Confused And Almost Certainly Gay Thing Howie’s got going on, because it sort of feels like she’s trying to set him up with his tall, slim cut, peacoat-ed boss.

But that’s crazy. From her point of view, all she’s doing is suggesting he think about being (normal! dude! totally normal!) roommates with somebody.

Arthur hesitates, obviously thinking, then tilts his head. “If you’re interested, I could show you the apartment.”

Holy shit. Arthur fucking Kraft the Second is actually in for this plan.

“I… okay?” Howie says, the word out of his mouth before he realizes he’s actually agreeing to the craziness that’s happening here. “I mean, I guess. Sure.”

Mom beams and sets her wine glass down.

“Just to check it out,” Howie adds quickly. “Just to see what sort of place Arthur thinks is awesome, you know.”

“That sounds nice,” Mom says, and Howie shoots her a warning glance. Nobody likes a gloater, MOM.

“I’ll email you the details,” Arthur says.

“Yippee,” Howie says.

 

*

 

The apartment turns out to be great. Suspiciously great. _Too_ great, really.

The rent is affordable, the location is almost exactly equidistant between the college, Artie Kraft’s Arts ’n Krafts, and Mom’s house, and Arthur seems like one of those dudes who would be a better roommate than Howie is himself. It’s a tough deal to pass up, actually.

“I think I’m going to pass,” Howie says.

Mom looks up from grading term papers, Red Pen of Doom in hand. “What? Why?”

“It’s…” Um. “It’s…I don’t want to leave you alone here. Weird things happen to people who live alone. _Dire_ things. Ghosts, hauntings, broody walks out on the moor, eventually being eaten alive by your own cats. I am so not down with that fate for my own mother.”

Mom puts her pen down slowly. “What if I promise to never own cats?”

“Still leaves the ghosts. And becoming a reclusive figure of mystery and darkness within the community.”

“Howie,” she says.

“It just seems weird to leave you here all by yourself.”

Mom seems to consider how to answer that, and something small and pitying and little bit self-loathing squirms inside Howie’s soul, at how carefully he can see her choosing her words.

“The apartment seems nice,” she says finally. “And you and Arthur get along pretty well, I think. You of course don’t have to move if you don’t want to. But I’m… I think I’m okay, Howie. You should do what you want to do. If you want to stay here, that’s okay, but if you want to move, you should do that, too.”

Howie takes a couple of important seconds to feel shitty about his life choices. It’s awesome, really.

“We’ll see each other all the time,” she adds. “Don’t think you’re getting out of that.”

“Are you trying to push me out of the nest? Because I’ve got to say, I’m feeling some distinct nest-pushing vibes. Just… fomph, out of the nest, have fun floundering around in the real world, don’t let the direwolves eat you.”

“Just think about it,” Mom says, still smiling, and picks up her red pen again. “That’s all I’m asking.”

 

*

 

“I guess I’m in,” Howie says the next day at work, and Arthur looks up from a pile of paperwork.

“Excellent.”

And that’s it, apparently.

 

*

 

“You know, I didn’t think you’d decide to move in with a man so soon after our little chat,” Cora says, radiating an unhealthy mix of sly and smug for somebody attempting to sweep glitter off the floor. “I’m better at this whole showing gay dudes their inner rainbow deal than even I thought.”

Howie sticks his head out of the aisle, ascertains that the door to the employee break room is still closed (with both Kirsty and Arthur safely behind it), and hisses back, “What we talked about has nothing to do with me moving in with Arthur.”

“Suuure.”

“We’re just going to be roommates, Cora. Room. Mates.”

Cora leers, the piercings contributing to an effect rather like a particularly sexually forward cactus. “Emphasis on the _mates_.”

“Emphasis on the _room_. Like, we’ll be sharing a… not a room, I mean, _obviously_ we won’t be sharing a room, but a… living area. A general use living area. Arthur and I are going to be general-living-room-area-bros.”

“Right.”

Howie’s gonna take the victories he can. “Exactamundo.”

Cora finally manages to sweep together a small, sad, not-even-close-to-everything-that-got-spilled mound of glitter, and both of them stare at the sparkling floor, which is threatening to disco out at any moment.

“Glitter is a real bitch,” Cora says finally.

“You know,” Howie continues, “just because Arthur’s gay and I’m… I dunno, whatever, that does not mean that there’s anything weird about the two of us moving in together. I mean, nobody would give you shit if you moved in with a roommate who happened to be a guy, would they? Nobody would care. And Arthur and I are friends.”

Cora raises an eyebrow.

“Well, we’re kind of friends.” Even this seems like too strong of a statement somehow. “He’s my boss and I don’t totally hate his guts anymore.” Fuck. “ _Future roommates_ , Cora. Future, sort-of-friends, employer/employee roommates.”

“Got it,” Cora says, and holds up her hands.

“Good,” Howie says, and flicks glitter at her.

“Oh no you did _not_ ,” she says, and the situation deteriorates from there, until Kristy and Arthur come back out from the break room to a glitter aisle that is noticeably sparklier than it was ten minutes ago.

 

*

 

Mitch helps Howie move that weekend, lugging the bedframe and mattress and Howie’s bookshelf, packed to the gills with yellow-cover Hardy Boy hardcovers and paperbacks of American and English lit classics and a bottom shelf of heavy textbooks, up to the second floor apartment.

“I never thought you’d actually do it, man,” Mitch says when they’re done, and slaps Howie hard on the shoulder in some sort of awful man-validation ritual.

“Do what?”

“Move out, dude! You’re, like, becoming a real boy.” Mitch takes in Howie’s bedroom in a circle, surveying the majesty that is Howie’s childhood furniture looking far too small in an otherwise empty bedroom. “I mean, you could even bring girls back here, Pinocchio.”

Howie’s stomach tightens into a knot, twisted and hard. “Girls, right. Right, ha ha.”

Mitch leaves after an hour or so of hanging out, and Howie lays on his bed for a while, staring at the ceiling and wondering what to do next. He sort of feels like he just moved in for summer camp, like the room he’s in is a temporary change until Howie goes back to his real home after two weeks of sunburns and mosquito bites.

Howie’s phone buzzes somewhere in the vicinity of his left knee; he hunts through the blankets until he unearths a text message from Arthur.

_Have you eaten dinner yet?_

_not yet_ , Howie types.

 _I’m making soup tonight_ , Arthur texts back after a couple minutes. _Fagioli with orzo._

_gesundheit_

_Would you like some?_

_bro, I am always down for free food_

_Excellent_ , comes the response. And then, a couple seconds later: _Please don’t call me bro._

Arthur arrives home and whips up a mean batch of Soup That Howie Can’t Pronounce, and they slurp in companionable silence at the counter in the kitchen until Arthur shuffles his feet a bit and clears his throat.

“I actually wanted to talk to you about something,” Arthur says. “The soup was a bit of a pretext, I’m afraid.”

“Noooooooo,” Howie says. “You give this soup a name nobody can pronounce and then you use it as bait. You monster!”

Arthur smiles. “It was in the pursuit of good.”

“The ends do not justify the means, my friend.”

“What I wanted to say,” Arthur says, carefully, like he’s saying words he’s thought through beforehand, “is that I know it might be weird, that I’m your boss at work, and your roommate here.”

“Never crossed my mind.” In fact, it’s something Howie’s been thinking about a lot. If Arthur, like, orders him to do the dishes, is that something that reflects on his work performance? It would suck to be fired because he forgot to take out the trash at home one too many times.

“I think that we have a certain… respect for each other,” Arthur continues. “I believe that we can both talk about any difficulties that might arise from this position. I, in particular, will work to make sure that my conduct is appropriate for each situation in which we find ourselves.”

“Thanks, man,” Howie says, touched despite himself. “I’ll try not be a total pain in the ass either.”

“I appreciate that,” Arthur says dryly, smiling a little.

“I’m a mensch, what can I say? You might call me… a room-mensch.”

“Obviously.”

“Mmph.” Howie mops up the last bit of soup from his bowl. “You wanna watch some TV or something?”

Arthur blinks. “Is something on?”

“Something is _always_ on. That’s the magic of cable; you never have to be alone again.”

“Okay,” Arthur says, doubtfully.

“That’s the kind of go-get-‘em enthusiasm I like to hear,” Howie says, and grabs the remote. “We’ve got, let’s see… Big Bang Theory reruns, one of the Rocky movies, some dating reality show, and… oh, man, I’ve got one for you.” He flips the channel to the Great British Bake Off and smugly waits for have his genius confirmed.

 

*

 

Howie spends Thanksgiving with his Mom, Amber, and Amber’s parents, who annually take pity on the rest of them and provide a homecooked meal of Thanksgiving-y goodness every year. There’s the disconcerting news about Dennis’s new girlfriend visiting over Christmas (literally nobody looks excited by the news, except for Amber’s parents), way too many insinuations about Howie and Amber finally getting it together and admitting their deep, abiding love for each other (never gonna happen), and a delicious pumpkin pie to top off all the social awkwardness. Despite everything, it’s a nice evening. It feels warm and cozy. It feels like family.

Amber drops Howie back off at the end of the evening, and Howie walks into the apartment, juggling the keys and several tupperwares of leftovers, to find Arthur sitting alone at the kitchen bar, eating a plateful of turkey and gravy, with a single glass of white wine at hand.

Howie feels instantly terrible.

“Did you make Thanksgiving dinner for yourself?” Howie asks, appalled. “Please don’t tell me you cooked an entire turkey.”

“I cooked half a turkey breast,” Arthur says with great dignity, like somehow that’s the thing that’ll make this scenario less depressing.

“Oh man, I’m so sorry. It didn’t even occur to me you wouldn’t be spending Thanksgiving with the fam! I would have invited you along, if I’d known.”

“I like this,” Arthur says. “Please don’t feel bad - my parents have a timeshare they spend the winter at every year. This is a Thanksgiving tradition for me. I had a lovely afternoon cooking, which, as you know, I greatly enjoy doing.”

Howie stashes the leftovers and pours himself a quarter glass of wine, sitting down at the counter with Arthur.

“I thought you didn’t drink?” Arthur asks.

“I can’t let you drink alone, man. That’s just _sad_.”

“I appreciate the sacrifice,” Arthur says, dryly.

“You better,” Howie says, and takes a small sip of the wine. It’s probably, like, amazing, beautifully-paired wine, with a fancy backstory and notes of citrus and something weird like river stones or whatever, but Howie would never be able to tell. “So the ‘rents are snowbirds, huh?”

Arthur nods. “Every year, since my dad stopped managing the store.”

“How long ago was that, anyway?”

“That was five years ago - I’d just finished college.”

 _Brutal_ , Howie thinks, but says, “Is that cornbread stuffing I see?”

“Nope,” Arthur says innocently, and Howie gapes.

“It’s _right there_ , dude. I can see it, you know.”

“With turkey sausage and apple,” Arthur confirms, smiling and dropping the act, and Howie digs into Thanksgiving, Pt. II with a full stomach and way too much enthusiasm.

 

*

 

“Lord of the Rings trilogy, extended editions, no prisoners,” Mitch says, throwing the DVDs out on the table. “I also brought Totino’s pizza rolls, Cheetos, microwave popcorn, corn dogs, dinosaur chicken nuggets, Oreos, Chips Ahoy, and a twelve pack of soda.”

Howie nods, surveying the field. “Well done, soldier.”

“Dear God,” Arthur says, wide-eyed.

“Amber just texted, she’s on her way over,” Howie says. “ETA is five minutes.”

“Roger that,” Mitch says crisply.

“You sure you don’t want to join us?” Howie asks Arthur, who is hovering over them, staring with a sort of horrified fascination, like he can’t quite bring himself to pull away. “We’ve got plenty of food, and you know LotR is a classic.”

“First, I’m not sure what you are discussing eating is precisely what I would call _food_. Second, Lord of the Rings - that’s the elf thing, right?”

Howie drops his phone on the table in shock, and Mitch’s mouth drops open. Arthur gazes back at them, unconcerned.

“Oh no,” Howie says. “No no no. You sweet summer child.”

“Prepare to have your mind blown,” Mitch informs Arthur seriously.

“Is said mind blowing a medical side effect of the sheer amount of sodium and sugar currently piled on top of our kitchen table?” Arthur asks.

“That’s it,” Howie says, crossing his arms. “We’re doing this. No excuses.”

“‘Sup, losers,” Amber says, letting herself in the front door.

“Howie’s roommate just called Lord of the Rings _that elf thing_ ,” Mitch reports, and Amber gasps.

“Did you tell him it’s a classic?”

“I was informed,” Arthur says dryly.

“Well then,” Amber says, like that solves all problems. “There you go.”

Howie spends a good part of the first movie summoning all the gay concentration he can muster staring at Legolas, trying to figure out why he’s not that into some good old fashioned Orlando Bloom. Legolas is supposed to be the Le-go-hottie of Middle-earth, right, and Howie sort of figures that, as a burgeoning gay man, his hormones should respect that. But the Bloomster does nothing for him.

“Do you think Legolas is hot?” Howie asks Arthur, who is frowning skeptically at the screen, which Howie is starting to think is a total front. He knows Arthur is vibing with the whole Frodo and Sam BFFs forever thing, even if he’s trying to hide it

“Is somebody feeling a little jealous of the blond hair?” Amber asks, grinning.

“Mos def,” Howie says, playing it cool. No homosexual longing here, no sir!

Next to him on the couch, Arthur tilts his head and regards the screen. “I can see it. But, personally, he’s not my type.”

“You guys,” Mitch says, waving a hand smeared with electric orange Cheetos-powder, and leaves the sentiment unfinished.

“What is your type?” Howie asks, sort of intrigued. He can’t really imagine who or what Arthur, who walks around like a cross between Dead Poet’s Society fashion wannabe and Artie Kraft’s Arts and Crafts corporate slavehood, would consider _his type_. The mysterious Patrick mostly seems like he’s a douchebag of the highest order, as far as Howie can tell.

Arthur looks over at Howie. “Why do you ask?”

“What, pointy ears don’t turn your crank?” Howie asks instead, ignoring the question.

“If I ever meet somebody with pointy ears in real life, I’ll let you know.”

“Deal,” Howie says.

They make it into _Return of the King_ before Amber falls asleep, her head on the arm of the loveseat and her feet in Mitch’s lap, who bit the dust an hour earlier, zonked out on delicious, delicious artificially created calories.

“Coffee,” Arthur whispers, who is staring at the TV screen with dry eyes and crazed resolution. “I need coffee to make it to the end of this.”

“I could just tell you how it ends,” Howie offers. “All you need to know, right, is that-“

“ _Coffee_ ,” Arthur repeats grimly.

“Good job, because I would never had told you. Who am I, somebody who does not respect the sacred pact of the spoiler? That was a test, and you passed. Gold stars all around.”

“Bully for me,” Arthur says.

“Fuck yeah,” Howie agrees.

Howie does the honors, trying to keep the noise down in the kitchen, and brings Arthur back a cup as well as a mug for himself. They sit in silence, drinking coffee at 2 AM in the morning, the light from the TV casting flickering shadows over both of them. 

Howie sneaks a glance over at Arthur when Frodo and Sam make it to Mount Doom. Arthur is watching the screen seriously, intently; Howie feels a sudden wave of fondness for this dude. He’s such a great roommate, way better than Howie would have guessed before they moved in together. He’s such a great _person_ , really.

“What?” Arthur asks, quietly.

“What?”

“You’re staring at me.” Arthur says that in the neutral voice he sometimes uses when pointing things out at work.

“Just checking out how you’re dealing with the emotional intensity of this classic movie.”

A small, amused smile flickers into existence around the corner of his mouth. “I’m dealing.”

“Good,” Howie says, somehow really meaning it.

 

*

 

Howie wakes up early on a Sunday to the sound of two men’s voices talking in the kitchen, low and heated. The store opens late on Sundays, so Arthur usually takes the time to cook up something he can’t make during a normal morning - Howie can smell turkey bacon sizzling, with a delicate hint of pancake-y goodness on top - but Howie cannot, for the life of him, figure out who else would be in apartment that Arthur would be chatting with. Arthur doesn’t really have a lot of friends, so that, you know, narrows the field a bit.

Howie pads out of his bedroom in a t-shirt and boxers, scratching at his head, and stops dead at the sight of a tall, dark man in a dark grey coat, standing in their foyer. Howie feels suddenly underdressed for the occasion.

The man turns and faces Howie, and his eyes narrow.

“Hey, stranger,” Howie says, waving a little. “‘Sup.”

The man ignores this admittedly weak greeting and turns to stare at Arthur, who looks caught between mortification and a fair bit of annoyance. “So this is how you’re spending your time, is it?” the man asks with a surprising amount of venom, and Howie holds up his hands in denial, because, whoa, where did _that_ come from?

“Hey, man, I don’t know what you think is -”

“This is Howie,” Arthur interrupts. “My _roommate_.” He stresses the word carefully. “Howie, is this my… this is Patrick.”

Patrick. Douchey Patrick, in the flesh.

Suddenly, Howie thinks it’s not such a bad thing if Patrick thinks Arthur is getting a little somethin’ somethin’ on the side. Screw that dude! Arthur could be out getting all _sorts_ of guys, if he wanted! (Nevermind that Arthur doesn’t seem to have any interest in dating or hookups of any sort, as far as Howie can tell - Patrick doesn’t need to know that.)

Howie takes a couple steps closer to Arthur, so that their shoulders are touching. “Nice to meet you,” Howie says, and tries to look like he and Arthur definitely stand this close to each other all the time. Eat it, Patrick! Wallow in your own sad jealousy.

“You were just leaving, I believe,” Arthur says loudly, like he can’t wait until this whole scene is over with. “I’ll mail you the last check for rent later today.”

Patrick shoots Howie one last, disdainful look (Howie stares back at him, defiantly) and leaves. Arthur lets out a deep breath, and heads back to the kitchen.

“So that was the mythical Patrick?” Howie asks, following Arthur and deciding to go for the obvious question.

“I believe that was already made clear,” Arthur says, clearly not happy. “Pancakes?”

“That would be awesome, thanks,” Howie says, and starts to clear their small kitchen table of the small pile of mail and miscellania that’s accumulated on top.

Arthur serves up pancakes and bacon, and Howie’s happily dunking his bacon into a river of maple syrup when Arthur clears his throat and says, “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“That?” Howie waves his fork around, dismissively. “That, my friend, was nothing.”

“Patrick’s a good guy,” Arthur says, sounding embarrassed now. “We’re just both under a lot of stress right now.”

“You don’t have to make excuses for him, you know,” Howie says. “Let Douchey Patrick be douchey Patrick for no reason other than sheer douchiness. He doesn’t need you to have his back.”

“Nevertheless, I appreciate you… how did you say it? I appreciate you having my back.”

“Always, bro,” Howie says. “You know I’m in your corner.”

“I guess I do,” Arthur says, sounding faintly surprised, and smiles for the first time that morning.

 

*

 

“Hey,” Howie asks one evening, “do you think we should do something for Christmas? Like, the two of us. Apartment-wise.”

Arthur looks up from his laptop and cup of tea. “Aren’t you spending Christmas with your mother?”

“Well, yeah, but your parents are in Hawaii or whatever timeshare thing they’re doing. You don’t have to camp out alone without telling me like you did for your sad, lonely Thanksgiving. We could, you know, do something together. Make a meal or something. Sing Christmas carols by our crackling TV log fire. The whole nine yards.”

“This sounds distinctly… cozy,” Arthur says, and for one strange moment Howie thinks Arthur is, like, flirting with him. Except that’s obviously not what is happening here. So.

“Cozy as hell, man.”

“I’d like that.”

Howie nods. “Cool beans.”

“Should we invite Kristy and Cora as well?”

Oh. Uh…. “Sure, why not? We’ll make it a whole to-do. I mean, the office Christmas party is a classic TV trope for a reason. Hilarity and hookups and holiday hoopla, what more could anybody want?”

“Indeed,” Arthur says, in what Howie can only assume is enthusiastic agreement.

Kristy ends up bringing Cliff and Nikki, so Howie invites Amber and Mitch as well, and they all drink cider around the Yuletide log DVD and watch _Elf_ together. Arthur whips up an kickass spread of appetizers, and plays some holiday songs on his guitar after dinner. Howie thinks that he’s never properly appreciated having somebody around who can play an instrument.

Amber’s been struggling with the whole Emily-and-Dennis-and-Christmas situation, so Mitch stays close to her side all evening, calling her _Ambie_ and generally needling her on, which distracts and infuriates her in equal measure until she’s laughing with the rest of them. Mitch catches Howie’s eye and winks, and Howie salutes him back, acknowledging a job well done.

“Your place is so great, you guys!” Kristy keeps exclaiming, looking around like she can’t believe how proud she is of the two of them. “It’s soooooo nice, oh my god!”

“Only for you, Kristybee,” Howie says solemnly.

 

*

 

Arthur comes down with a pretty bad cold just after Christmas, and shows up at work the next day with a red nose and glassy, tired eyes. 

“Gross, man,” Cora says, and makes the sign of the cross in front of her. “Get your germs away from me.”

“Oooh, Arthur!” Kristy lays the back of her hand on Arthur’s forehead, before glaring over at Howie accusingly. “Howie, how could you let Arthur come into work like this?”

“It’s not my fault!” Howie protests, as Arthur waves Kristy off weakly.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Arthur grumbles, and disappears into the storage closet and up to his hidden lair, moving slowly up in stairs like some sort of wounded animal. It’s seriously the saddest fucking thing Howie has seen in awhile.

Kristy looks over at Howie with narrowed eyes. “He better not die up there.”

“Arthur is a grown man, he’s not going to _die_ in his own office.”

“Or he does die and then you FEEL AWFUL.” Kristy is strangely terrifying sometimes, like a warrior goddess on a glorious quest against the sufferings of the common cold.

“And then none of us have jobs anymore,” Cora points out, way too dispassionately.

“Oh my god. Fine, I’ll check on him in an hour. Happy?”

Kristy beams and lays on hand on Howie’s shoulder. “You’re the best, Howie!”

Howie sweeps and rearranges signs in the yarn aisle for a while before trudging obediently up to Arthur’s office. He knocks on the door a couple times, and it takes a weirdly long, tense, maybe-he-did-actually-die-in-his-office moment before Arthur answers.

“Sorry to bother you,” Howie says, opening the door, “but I promised the ladies I’d check in on you, and you know I’m helpless when it comes to the laaa… oh my god, dude, you look _terrible_. Seriously, Arthur, what the fuck.”

Arthur’s the textbook definition of miserable; look up _pathetic bastard_ in the dictionary and there’s probably a picture of one Artie Kraft, shivering, circa now. “I seem to be a bit sicker than I’d originally thought,” he says, thickly, and blows his nose. It’s utterly tragic.

“Understatement of the century, man.”

Arthur doesn’t even argue, just lets Howie herd him back down the stairs. Kristy coos at him and Cora shoves a box of Throat Coat tea in Arthur’s direction and stomps away like she’s daring somebody to call her out on it. Howie gives Arthur a ride home, then runs to the grocery store and sets Arthur up with a survival bag of NyQuil, Kleenex, several types of juice, and a handful of movies from Redbox before heading back to work.

Kristy counts out the register at the end of the night, and the three of them split Arthur’s closing tasks. Howie picks up a couple cans of soup on the way home, and walks into the apartment to find Arthur asleep on the couch, the DVD menu for _Oceans’s Eleven_ playing on a loop on the TV.

“Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey,” Howie says, shaking Arthur gently awake.

Arthur sits up slowly and blinks a couple times before pulling on his glasses.

“You’re making bacon?” he asks, voice raspy and tired.

“You wish. But I am going to make soup, if you want some.”

“Soup?”

“Chicken noodle. Well, chicken and stars. Motherfuckin’ _stars_.”

Arthur smiles weakly. “Sign me up.”

They watch movies eating soup, Arthur underneath a fleece blanket that Kristy made as a housewarming present for the two of them, Howie sitting next to Arthur’s feet on the opposite end of the couch.

Arthur falls asleep by the time the heist really gets going in _Ocean’s Twelve_ and Howie just sort of… watches him sleep for a while. (But, like, not in a creepy way. Said sleep-watching is totally accomplished in a non-creepy, totally respectful, roommates-4-life sort of way.) Arthur’s face is more flushed than normal, color high on his cheekbones. It’s crazy that on top of the eyelashes that Arthur has cheekbones like that, like, what’s that about? Also, Howie doesn’t really get to see Arthur with his glasses on very often. Arthur wears contacts religiously, putting them on first thing in the morning and taking them out last thing at night, so the Arthur-with-glasses thing is basically the mythical unicorn of the Jenkins/Kraft household.

Arthur stretches his legs out when the credits start, yawning, hitting the side of Howie’s hip with his toes.

“You up for another movie, Sleeping Beauty?” Howie asks, and immediately feels a little weird about calling Arthur _Sleeping freaking Beauty_. 

But Arthur just laughs, low and crackly. “I feel like I’m ready to run a marathon.”

“What, really?”

“No. I feel like I’m going to fall asleep and cough half the night. Night, Howie,” Arthur says, and shuffles off to bed, dragging Kristy’s fleece blanket behind him.

 

*

 

Arthur stays home for the next couple days, and Kristy, Cora, and Howie pick up extra shifts to cover the workload. Arthur makes it back to work on a Tuesday and Kristy gives him an actual standing ovation for dragging his sorry ass into the store. Cora nods her greeting, briskly. Howie gives Arthur shit for a while about looking like Robert Pattinson in full-on pale sickly vampire mode, minus the beautiful and mysterious sparkling in the sunlight.

Business slows down after the new year, with the crafting frenzy of Christmas in the past (or, at least what Howie is going to assume is a holiday crafting frenzy). Howie sort of likes the slow pace as an employee: he and Cora spend a while rearranging the flowers in the flower aisle in order of literary importance, and Kristy spends a lot of time singing when she mops up at store close. But Arthur starts to look more and more pinched around his eyes, sort of tight around his lips.

“Is Arthur okay?” Kirsty asks Howie in a low voice at work one day.

“What? Why?”

“He just… he seems stressed or something lately. Like he was when he and Patrick were in the middle of breaking up, you know?”

Howie laughs it off, saying it’s probably just the lingering effects of Arthur’s cold from Christmas, but that evening when Howie comes home, he finds Arthur in the living room, bent over his guitar, face in shadow. Arthur doesn’t hear Howie come in; he’s playing some old Beatles tune, picking the notes out on his guitar in a strange, melancholy, off-beat way. Arthur’s expression is serious and tired and sort of sad, lines around his eyes that Howie’s pretty sure aren’t normally there.

Howie retreats back into the kitchen, uneasy in a way he can’t put his finger on, and noisily opens a few cabinets and gets out some dishes before he walks back out into the living room. He spends the evening trying to discretely cheer Arthur up with dumb jokes and pop culture references, which are really all Howie’s got in his back pocket, and it doesn’t seem like nearly enough.

 

*

 

Howie finds the suit he wore to prom (that awful senior prom, _thanks_ Heather Grimsby) and lays it across his bed, regarding it with a mixture of wariness and low level hate. Sure, he’s accompanying his mom to a benefit at the college, where she’s scheduled to receive an award for her teaching, so he’s got to class it up, but he wishes desperately that he didn’t have to wear this particular suit to accomplish this. Why doesn’t he own a second suit? Why doesn’t he make enough money to somehow own a second suit?

 _Suck it up, Jenkins_ , he tells himself firmly, and changes before he can wimp out.

He’s halfway through his fourth attempt to trying to get his tie on when he throws the damn thing on the floor in sheer frustration. Arthur must know how to do this, right? Arthur rocks a button-up like nobody’s business. The man has to have mad tie-tying skills.

Howie sticks his head out of his bedroom and yells for help.

“I’m not your valet,” Arthur says mildly, from the kitchen.

“C’mon, man, you’ve got to show me how to tie this thing. YouTube is majorly letting me down right now.” Howie stomps into the kitchen, the tie draped around his neck, the collar of his shirt sticking up.

Arthur stares at Howie for a long moment, long enough that Howie starts to feel weirdly self-conscious. Way to make a guy feel like he’s got tomato sauce all over his face or something. “What?”

“I just… realized I’ve never seen you dressed up before.”

Howie looks down at himself. “What, the old monkey suit?”

“Yes. That.”

Howie shrugs his shoulders, resettling the fabric. Arthur takes a sharp breath in, then holds out a hand. “Give it here.”

Arthur drapes Howie’s tie around his own neck and somehow produces a neatly symmetrical windsor knot, then loosens up the neck enough to slip the whole deal back up over his head and hand it back to Howie. Howie is duly impressed.

“Thanks. You’re really good at that, a true maestro. A tie-estro,” Howie says, buttoning up the top of his shirt and adjusting the knot upward. Arthur watches him do that with this odd expression. Arthur’s probably worried Howie is going to mess up his whole painstakingly tied knot, like, geez, man, chill.

“I wear a tie every day,” Arthur points out.

“Yeah, what’s up with that, anyway? Why do you wear a tie to work all the time?”

Arthur appears to seriously consider his answer; Howie really likes that about Arthur, that he’ll take the time to answer a simple question honestly. “I feel that it sets a good example for the store,” Arthur says finally.

“Yeah, except for the part where you then don’t allow the rest of us to follow said example and force us to wear dumb girly aprons instead.” Check and mate, Mr. Kraft!

But Arthur doesn’t seem to be bothered by Howie decimating the holes in his sloppy logic. Arthur smiles then, this little amused quirk of his mouth, and just says, “You might be right.”

“Best believe, homes,” Howie says, and finishes adjusting the tie. He steps back and opens up his arms. “How do I look?”

Arthur hesitates, then gestures toward Howie’s neck. “May I…?”

“Sure.”

Arthur’s fingers are at the throat of his collar then, tugging at the fabric, doing something Howie can’t really see from this angle. The moment is quiet and still in a way that makes Howie’s face feel suddenly hot, acutely aware of Arthur, doing this thing only his Mom has ever done before.

“There,” Arthur says, and gives Howie’s tie one final pat, and steps back.

Howie’s mouth is dry; he clears his throat, trying to find his voice. “Thanks. You’re the best, man.”

“You’re welcome,” Arthur says, and smiles. “Go knock ‘em dead.”

“You mean, go knock my _Mom_ dead? Because I’ve got news for you: I think she knows the hotness that is her favorite son.”

“Yes,” Arthur agrees quietly.

They stare at each other for a long moment, kitchen appliances humming softly around them.

“I should… I should probably go,” Howie finally manages.

“Yes,” Arthur says again.

Howie takes a step backwards, and flees.

 

*

 

He thinks about it that evening, while his mom gets Official Academic Acknowledgement for all the awesome work she does and he plays the dutiful son-ly escort to her awesomeness. Howie’s never had something like that happen to him before. Even with the girls he’s had crushes on, there was never _that_ \- never that long, thrumming moment of potential, the feeling that the entire world could shift, could become an entirely new place, built around the two of them.

And, besides that - it’s _Arthur_ he’s talking about. Arthur!

Arthur’s in bed by the time Howie drops his mom off at home and makes it back to the apartment. The kitchen is clean; Howie loosens the knot that Arthur tied for him as he drinks a glass of water before bed.

When the truth finally hits him, right after he pulls on a t-shirt to sleep in and climbs into bed, it’s so obvious it’s almost laughable.

Because: Howie is into Arthur.

The thought floors him. He is into ARTHUR FREAKING KRAFT. His boss! His platonic-but-also-totally-gay roommate! And this bears repeating: his _boss_. There are so many ways that this is the worst idea Howie has come up with in a long, long time. 

Howie Jenkins shoves his face into a pillow and tries not to scream.

 

*

 

Okay. Okay okay okay.

Having a crush on Arthur isn’t the end of the world, right?

After all, Howie’s had crushes before. Terrible idea crushes. _Heather Grimsby_ -level crushes. Sure, Howie’s never had to deal with a crush on a man before, but he’s a twenty-first century dude, right? This is _nothing_ compared to some good old Heather Grimsby crushing. After all, Arthur’s a pretty great guy, who has a soul, and isn’t a demoness hell-spawn sent to ruin Howie’s high school existence. Howie’s really ahead of the game on this one, all things considered.

He can handle this.

He can totally handle this.

He can…

“Are you really going to eat that?” Arthur asks, a vague look of disgust on his face, staring at the microwave chicken cordon bleu Howie is letting cool on his plate. To be fair, it does look nasty. Everything is white or tan or brown and there’s seepage leaking out of the side of the chicken breast which is most likely vaporized cheese. It’s, like, the opposite of a colorful rainbow of nutrition.

“Indubitably, my man,” Howie says, and shoves a forkful of cordon bleu in his mouth, promptly burning his tongue.

Arthur looks like he’s trying valiantly not to smile while Howie sticks his tongue out and bitches about the injustice of the universe. Which, way to rub that one in his face, universe.

 

*

 

What would he do if Arthur was just a normal person he liked? They’re in homeroom together, and Arthur’s just some - some girl or whatever - that Howie’s got a thing for. Howie spends a while trying to figure out his move, and ends up concluding he’s just a person that has no game. No game at _all_ , son.

Except: that’s not exactly true. Howie’s got a modicum of self-respect. He’d at least be trying to _talk_ to this mysteriously alluring Arthur person. And everybody says you should try to casually touch the person you’re interested in - make it flirty, but keep it respectful, yo.

He could…

He can do that thing where he shows Arthur how do something. Yeah. _Yeah_. Like swinging a baseball bat or whatever, like Mulder getting all up in Scully’s personal space, like Xena showing Gabrielle how to swordfight or something. Arthur’s going to be fumbling while making tea one day, and Howie’s going to swoop in behind him, and press himself manfully up against Arthur and demonstrate his inherent competency as a human being, and it’s going to be _awesome_.

This is a GREAT plan. Howie’s gonna lay some smooth here’s-how-you-do-that vibes down on Arthur, and Arthur’s going to start looking at his main man Howie Jenkins like a gay man should look at another man who is almost-definitely-gay and wants to get with said… first man. This is going to go down like butter on toast. Like marmalade on… whatever people eat marmalade on.

The problem, Howie realizes after several days of discretely tailing Arthur Kraft the Second looking for primo touch-up-on-my-man opportunities, is that Arthur is just so freaking _competent_ at everything.

Arthur plays guitar. The last time Howie touched an instrument it made a noise like a wounded animal simultaneously giving birth to a litter of baby tubas and also orgasming/dying of mortal wounds at the same time. Arthur runs the store. Howie is cursed, as an English major and all-around word nerd, to see financial spreadsheets as little more than a random accumulation of numbers and obscure (probably occult, let’s be real, _definitely_ occult) symbols. Arthur makes his bed in the morning and folds down the sheets. Howie kicks the blanket into the middle of the bed and calls it a day.

So when Howie, in a moment of sheer desperation, grabs the spatula Arthur is using to stir spaghetti sauce and tries to whisper seductively in Arthur’s ear, “Hey, let me show you how to do that,” it really makes nothing but depressing sense that Arthur looks over at Howie like he’s the crazy one.

“Are you,” Arthur says carefully, “trying to tell me I am stirring something wrong?”

“Yes?” Howie tries, but his voices comes out as a croak. He can feel the heat of Arthur’s body, pressed up against his side, and they’re both holding the handle of the spatula, fingers brushing, and Arthur’s frankly ridiculous eyelashes are at about 1000% magnification this close up, and Howie is starting to realize that there’s a really big flaw in his awesome plan.

“You’re saying I am _stirring something wrong_ ,” Arthur repeats.

Howie clears his throat. “You heard me.”

“And when, pray tell, was the last time you cooked something?”

“Define ‘something’,” Howie hedges.

“Anything. Anything at all.”

Howie makes himself scoff. “You know I made scrambled eggs this morning. I scrambled those eggs so hard they were walking funny.”

“Are you implying that you sexually molested the eggs we ate for breakfast today?”

Oh, Jesus. How did he end up in this situation, what are these words coming out of his mouth, abort, abort, ABORT.

Howie takes a step backwards from Arthur, laughs out a hearty “You gross, Kraft,” and flees to his bedroom, leaving behind a bewildered Arthur, still holding the spatula and staring after him.

 

*

 

So _that_ isn’t going to work.

Howie mainlines a top ten of romantic comedies, thinks seriously about the situation he’s in, and decides to talk to his best gal pal. That’s a thing, right? Movies are definitely telling him that’s a thing.

“You thought _I’d_ be the best person to ask what to do if you’re into somebody?” Amber asks blankly. “You have noticed the trainwreck that is my non-relationship with Dennis, right?”

“Pshaw.” Howie waves that whole years-long one-sided romantic fiasco away. “You went on a blind date last month and everything. You’re a dating guru, my friend. You are the Dumbledore to my hapless-in-love Harry Potter, the John Wayne to my American West of hookups.”

“You are so screwed,” Amber says.

“Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.”

Amber looks thoughtful. “I do rather like the idea of being the old, hot, bearded Alec Guinness to your in-peril Princess Leia.”

“See? Everybody wins.”

“Why don’t you just ask this mystery person out on a date?” Amber asks. “You know, you ask _do you wanna get some coffee_ , they say either yes or no, and Bob’s your uncle. I hear that’s what normal, functional people do.”

Howie pretends to think it all over, then shakes his head. “Do you have a suggestion that really maximizes my chances for confusion and misunderstanding?”

“You know misunderstandings and awkward silences are my wheelhouse, but that’s not a move I can wholeheartedly recommend to other people.”

“What good are you then?”

“None at all,” Amber says.

“Obi-Wan status _revoked_.”

 

*

 

Arthur makes himself a salad for dinner the next day while Howie digs into the leftover situation in the fridge, and when they’re both sitting at the kitchen table, Howie opens up his mouth to ask Arthur how his day was, you know, totally normal roommate banter, but instead what comes out of his mouth is, “I’m gay.”

 _Why_. Why why why. Et tu, mouth??

Arthur stops chewing, and Howie rushes, awkwardly, to fill the silence.

“I mean, not the happy old fashioned kind of gay, like, oh, look, the sun is so bright and I’m breaking into song. I mean, like, into-dudes gay. _Gay_ gay.” Why, _why_ is Howie still talking?

Arthur swallows, takes a swig of water, and sets the glass down slowly.

“When did you come to this realization?”

“Maybe six months ago?” Howie says, overwhelmingly grateful to have a real question with a non-incriminating answer to respond to.

“I see,” Arthur says.

They sit there in silence for a couple moments. Is Howie supposed to say something else? He’s never come out to anybody before, and he’s certainly never come out to somebody he’s got _le thing_ for. In his deepest, darkest heart, maybe Howie had been sort of hoping Arthur would just throw down his fork, storm around the table, and kiss him like crazy or something. _Maybe_ something like that. But, instead, they seem to be opting for the staring at each other awkwardly across the dinner table option. Cool.

“Who else knows?” Arthur asks finally.

“Uh, only one other person? You and… well, Cora. She sort of helped me talk through a couple things, a while ago.”

For some reason, Arthur seems to relax after Howie says that. “Oh.”

“I just…” Damn, this is weirdly hard. If Howie is sucking this hard telling an actual gay person that he’s got a thing for the dudes, he can’t imagine how awkward it’s going to be trying to tell Mitch or Amber or his mom. “I wanted you to know.”

Arthur pauses again, then asks with careful curiosity, “Am I the first person you’ve told?”

Howie nods. “Yeah. Numero uno, that’s you.”

“I hated coming out to people,” Arthur says. “There’s no casual way to do it.”

“So what you’re saying is I’ve got lots more social awkwardness coming my way? Goody.”

“It gets easier,” Arthur says.

“God, I hope so.”

Arthur smiles at him then, sort of small but… intimate, it’s an _intimate_ smile, that’s what Howie’s going to call it, and says, “Thank you.”

Howie nods, all no-big-deal, trying not to think about the way Arthur is looking at him right now. “No prob.”

They finish dinner together, talking about Kristy’s recent effort to dynamize the store’s advertising campaign (not a success), and Cora’s audition for the spring play and what part she might possibly land in _You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown_ (“Lucy?” Howie suggests, and they both agree Cora would play a pretty sadisticly great version of Lucy). It feels great, it feels _freeing_ knowing that this secret Howie’s been living with is now out in the open.

Besides, the first step to getting with Arthur is probably letting know Arthur know they’re both into the same gender, right? That definitely makes sense. It makes so much sense that Howie’s sort of surprised that he hadn’t thought of this before, really.

 

*

 

Everything’s normal for a while after that, and Howie can’t help feeling disappointed. Spending time with Arthur is becoming weirder and easier at the same time, what with the whole trying-not-to-touch-his-face instinct Howie has to continually suppress and the fact that he could stare at Arthur’s eyelashes for, like, hours. He stares surreptitiously at Arthur’s mouth for a solid five minutes on Saturday while Arthur makes dinner and Howie does the dishes.

It’s awesome. Or something like that.

Howie follows Arthur home from work the next day, after the two of them close up the store late, since Kristy’s applying for teaching jobs and Cora had worked the morning shift. Howie blares _Blister in the Sun_ and sings along with the chorus, and is still humming the melody under his breath when they unlock the door to the apartment.

The kitchen is dim, lit only by the oven light and the small night light in the hallway. Howie feels great tonight for some reason, loose, relaxed, like Matthew McConaughey being all alright alright alright. Arthur loosens the top button and cufflinks of his shirt, pushing the sleeves up to his forearms.

“You’re off tomorrow for class, right?” Arthur asks.

“You tell me, boss,” Howie says, and bumps into Arthur companionably with his shoulder.

“I’m going to say yes, then.”

“Got it in one. We have class discussion tomorrow.”

“Ah. What are you reading right now?”

“Good old Beowulf.”

“I read that one in high school. Grendel, right?”

“Nailed it in one. Nobody likes Grendel. Or Grendel’s mom. Pimps ain’t got nothin’ on Grendel-hating, man. It was a hard life for bloodthirsty monsters back then.”

Arthur smiles. “To be fair, was there ever a good time to be a mythical creature?”

“Of the type that was into eating people? Sure. Back when, you know, maps all had that big area that just said Here Be Dragons or whatever. That seems like prime monster time.”

“Of course.”

“I mean, it only makes sense.”

Arthur laughs, low and easy, and a warm, complex feeling unfurls low in Howie’s gut, and he suddenly wishes, more than anything he’s ever wanted something in his life before, that he could just… kiss Arthur. Just _kiss_ him. Just once.

Howie’s gaze drops to Arthur’s lips before he can help himself.

Something flickers in Arthur’s eyes then, and a vast feeling lodges in Howie’s throat. The next thing he knows, Howie is taking a step forward and Arthur is taking a step forward, and they’re in the middle of kitchen: kissing, kissing, oh god, definitely kissing. There’s a roar in Howie’s ears, and all Howie can think about is his own lips against Arthur’s.

“Oh my god,” Arthur mumbles, the words half-spoken into Howie’s mouth.

Arthur walks Howie backwards, his hands at Howie’s waist. Howie’s never kissed anybody who’s taller than him. It’s kind of amazingly great to not be the one slouching his neck downward into awkward positions to get at somebody, and man, Howie should kiss dudes who are taller than him _all the time_.

What had they been talking about? Beowulf?

“Were we just talking about Beowulf?” Howie asks, pulling his lips away, and Arthur dips his head further to kiss along the line of Howie’s throat.

“I’ve wanted to do this for forever,” Arthur answers, instead, and Howie flushes.

“Really?”

Arthur nods, burying his face in Howie’s neck. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since you first interviewed for the job at the store.”

“No way,” Howie says.

“Way,” Arthur says dryly, pulling his head back to look at Howie.

“Why didn’t you?”

Arthur looks surprised at the question. “Well, I thought you were straight.”

Oh, right. That pesky detail.

“I’m sorry I acted a little strange, when you first told me that night,” Arthur continues, talking fast now. “All I could think was that everybody must know, and I was the only one who didn’t, when I had such a ridiculous crush on you.”

Howie’s smiling now, like his face isn’t even underneath his control, this crazy, giant grin. “You had a crush on me?”

“It sounds appallingly high school when you say it,” Arthur says, but he’s grinning too.

“It’s cool,” Howie says, running an experimental hand up Arthur’s side. Howie leans in close to Arthur, his body slim and hard against Howie’s own, and kisses him again.

They make out for a while against the kitchen counter, hips pressed against each other. Arthur is visibly and obviously really, _really_ into Howie. The bulge of Arthur’s dick against his hip is pretty much the hottest thing that Howie has ever experienced in his whole life. Howie threads his fingers in the belt loops of Arthur’s khakis, and they grind against each other a little, and all Howie can think about it how few layers of fabric are separating their erections, how very very close they are to each other. Arthur is panting by the end, eyes dark in a way Howie’s never seen before and is utterly, crazily into.

“We should…” Arthur begins, then gulps oxygen. “We should stop.”

“Why?” Howie says, his voice cracking on the word, and he’s almost ashamed of how desperate it sounds. Arthur closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and a step back.

God, Howie just kissed a dude for the first time and he’s already scaring them away with his - _wantonness_ , that’s the word, god, somehow, for the first time in his life, Howie is _wanton_. He has a sudden, strange urge to tell Amber this, just to hear her laugh at him.

Arthur takes another breath before opening his eyes again, and he looks _good_ right now. Arthur’s hair is messier than normal, falling over his forehead. His shirt his haphazardly unbuttoned. Howie wants to see Arthur like this all the time, unbuttoned and messy.

“Do you want to go out to dinner tomorrow?” Arthur asks, instead, breathless and formal at the same time.

Howie blinks. “What?”

“Dinner,” Arthur repeats.

“Like… like a date-type thing?”

Arthur smiles, looking amused again. “I believe you could call it that, yes.”

Howie starts to grin back at him, sanity returning slowly.

“You asking me out, Kraft?”

“You’re making me start to regret it,” Arthur says, but there’s a wry, teasing note to his voice.

“You’re on,” Howie says, and kisses Arthur again.

They kiss for a while longer, until Arthur groans, pulling himself away again, and leans his forehead against Howie’s. “I should go to bed,” he says, in a whisper.

Howie jerks Arthur’s hips against his own again, grinning, and raises an eyebrow.

“ _I_ should go to bed,” Arthur repeats, with rapidly dwindling conviction. “I’m off work at eight tomorrow. Do you - do you want to swing by the store and we can go from there?”

“You’re killing me, man,” Howie groans.

“Tomorrow,” Arthur promises, and kisses Howie one final time.

Howie brushes his teeth and goes to bed in a daze. He almost feels like he’s going to wake up and everything will be the same, that nothing will have changed. Howie stares at his ceiling in his bedroom, acutely aware of Arthur in the next room over, separated by a thin wall, just like he’s been for months, only now - now, _now_ , it’s different.

Tomorrow, Howie thinks.

 _Tomorrow_.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this story and would like to share it, please consider reblogging [this post](http://blithers.tumblr.com/post/136408028533/not-unseen-blithers-know-not-why-hannah) on tumblr!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Not Unseen by blithers [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6594691) by [Rhea314 (Rhea)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhea/pseuds/Rhea314)




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